Stella disliked the idea of night school and would have preferred to keep trying to memorize the book on her own. She loathed putting herself in any situation where her weaknesses were on display; she also didn’t relish the nightly walk out of their ghetto ofpaesan,past the shantytowns and dark alleys of lurking strangers.
“I’ll escort you,” Fiorella offered. “Stella, you’re clever, you might be able to pass on your own, but Tina won’t, no matter what you do, you know that. And if you go with her to the classes maybe you can help her catch up.” She smiled slyly. “Plus, you might meet some nice boys.”
“Oh, Madonn’.” Stella clasped her hands and rolled her eyes heavenward in supplication. “Please don’t put that idea in Tina’s head.”
The first class they went to was on a Tuesday in mid-November. It hadn’t occurred to Stella and Tina to change out of the sweat-stiffened dresses they’d worn all day at the laundry, but after they saw how smartly some of the immigrants dressed up for class, they followed suit. The classes were boring and confusing, just like school had always been, only worse because now it was in English. Stella was often tired after a ten-hour day standing over the ironing board. But she went, feeling nagged and guilty about the money she could be earning if only she could get a better job.
Joey, who was working part-time as a janitor at the Italian Society, didn’t seem to worry about his U.S. citizenship. But in general Joey didn’t worry about anything. That was his gift. Sparkly brown eyes; bright, straight teeth when he smiled; and not a care in the world.
AFTER THEIR FIRSTAMERICANTHANKSGIVING,which they celebrated with the Nicoteras, Carolina talked Stella and Tina into cutting their hair. “You want to get it like this.” She reached up and patted her own curls, which radiated from her head like saints’ halos in churchpaintings. “And you want to get a permanent wave, if you can, so that you don’t have to mess around with curling rags every night.”
“Our father likes us to wear it long,” Stella told Carolina. Tony had the notion that women with short hair were loose. They could move faster, dance more energetically without worrying about pins flying around.
“But he always says how he wants you to be real Americans,” Carolina said pointedly. “Make him look around. All the American girls have short hair. The only girls with long hair are the country girls.”
Stella knew what she meant by “country girls.” There were some Italian families on Front Street who lived strictly, raising their daughters the way things had been back home—ankle-length skirts, veils, arranged marriages. Tony Fortuna had his rules and became explosive if they were disobeyed, but he didn’t make the girls cover their faces to go to mass. Stella thought he was smart not to impose that kind of embarrassing stricture on his family; after all, they had lived most of their lives without him, and he didn’t want to put himself in a position where they might stand up to him. He was a disgusting person, in Stella’s opinion, but a wily despot.
Stella and Tina talked it over that night as they were combing out before bed. It was weird to think about parting with all that hair—the marker of their femininity. But Stella didn’t want to be lumped in with the “country girls” anymore. Of course, Tina would do whatever Stella did.
The conversation with Tony began much as expected. “Papa, Tina and I want to cut our hair,” Stella said during dinner that Sunday.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Women in this house dress respectfully.”
“But Papa, you say you want us to be American. No American woman wears her hair long. Everyone will think we’re... we’re poor and new here.”
Stella had been prepared for a protracted argument, but after several moments of hard thought, Antonio seemed ready to reverse his opinion.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. Short hair is better for life in America.”
That seemed too easy. Stella watched his face to try to guess what kinds of private thoughts were passing behind it. “So you’ll give us money for the hairdresser’s?”
“All right,” he said. “All right. You girls will cut your hair and then we should get a family portrait taken. That’s what we will send home at Christmas.” He slapped his thighs. “One year as Americans. Yes, we should take a portrait.”
Her father had a vision in his head. Stella decided to press her luck. “Tina and I need five dollars each.”
Antonio turned to look at her. His face was turning red, and she braced herself, but then he started to laugh. “If that’s how much the hairdresser costs, you can figure out how to cut your own hair.”
“No, Papa, it’s for the permanent wave. We need to go and get it professionally done. They have to put chemicals in your hair to make it—”
“Absolutely no permanent wave.Mannaggia,give them a finger and they take your whole hand.” Antonio had returned his attention to his food. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you each two dollars. You, too,” he said to the boys. “You spend it on what you want, haircut, clothes, whatever. Just make sure you look good for the picture.”
TWO WEEKS BEFORECHRISTMASall six Fortunas dressed in their best and went down to G. Fox to get studio photos taken. The girls had each spent fifty cents on their new short haircuts, which they had practiced rag-curling and combing to frame their faces. The remainder of their budgets had gone toward blue cotton Stella sewed into matching long-sleeved dresses on Fiorella’s mechanical sewing machine. Stella and Tina had begged Antonio for extra money for new shoes, but he had drawn the line.
The Fortunas posed with Antonio and Assunta seated in front, their sons on either side, and Stella and Tina standing behind them to disguise the old shoes they’d bought in Nicastro. Tina is one inchtaller and a bit less bosomy, and of course there is that standout mole above her lip. Otherwise their smiles are identical, as are their dresses, their posture, the angles at which they hold their elbows—similar in the subtle and comprehensive ways only sisters are similar. Assunta’s ankles are crossed and her feet tucked under her chair. She is smiling this time. Antonio may be smiling as well, but as with the Mona Lisa, no one can ever be sure what he is thinking; most of his expression is concealed by his mustache. Together, they are an impressive accomplishment of a family.
For fifty years, this portrait hung on various walls next to the grainier black-and-white of the first Mariastella. Somehow there is no other photo of the entire family, not even at any of the children’s weddings. This was the first and last time they were photographed together.
***
NINETEEN FORTY-ONE WAS BETTER THAN 1940.Front Street was becoming less foreign. The Fortunas knew their favorite pushcart vendors; they understood the money and knew how much things were supposed to cost. They had learned to enjoy American food, its diversity and its rich ingredients. They’d learned a little more English. They worked hard six days a week, steadily setting aside money for their house; they had enough pocket money now that they could afford to dress American. They went to the Italian Society dances every Saturday night, meeting up in the evening with Fiorella Mulino, Carolina Nicotera, and Franceschina Perri to do one another’s hair. Usually they met at the Nicoteras’ house, because Carolina had no fresh brothers who would harass the girls as they tried to get dressed.
There was live music every weekend, usually a three-man band who sang songs in Italian and English. An ordinary Saturday here was a bigger party than the annualfhestain Ievoli. Stella loved to dance and was good at it. Franceschina had taught her the fox-trot and the swing, and even Stella had been surprised by how quickly she shed her village-girl shyness about dancing with boys. It was thrilling to think of the scandal dancing like this would have caused back home, boys and girls moving so fast together, skirts flying, calves bare, uncorseted breasts bouncing—the freest and most joyful her body had ever felt.
Stella had her pick of partners. She danced often with Frankie D’Agata, who was very popular among the girls, until she decided she was spending too much time with him and started turning him down, which incited gossip. She said no to anyone who wasn’t taller than she was. She rejected the wooing of Fiorella’s older brother Vittorio, who she thought was greasy. She refused to ever, ever dance with either of the Perri boys on principle, especially the older one, Mario, who was particularly handsome and full of himself. He asked her anyway to spite her and tried to pinch her bottom. Sometimes she told boys no for no reason at all and danced with her girlfriends instead.
Franceschina admired Stella’s attitude. “Ooo, you can be such a bitch!” she’d giggle, and the other girls would giggle with her at the naughty word.
“When you’re pretty you have to be a bitch,” Carolina said, and they giggled again. “Otherwise the men will take whatever they can get!”
